


He Believes Her

by WhumpTown



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Hallucinations, Hospitalization, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:13:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22688308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhumpTown/pseuds/WhumpTown
Summary: “Didn’t you say that last time you two split?” JT challenges bravely, earning him a sharp frown. Malcolm realizes he’s drifted from the conversation, lost in his head. That’s happening a lot lately. He feels he is disconnecting from reality. His body doesn’t feel like his own. As if he’s slid on someone else’s clothes. They’re clothes, he can feel the cotton on his biceps and the jeans on his thighs but… they’re not his clothes.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright, Malcolm Bright & Dani Powell, Malcolm Bright & JT Tarmel
Comments: 6
Kudos: 101





	He Believes Her

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I have been in maybe two hospitals and anything to do with the ward was taken from examples from blogs of people who went to them. So pretty please don't @me because I did my research and I did my best

It’s the third Monday of December and Dani’s fifteen minutes late. While Dani’s punctuality has never been good enough for her to win any awards, fifteen minutes usually means one thing: Dani’s nursing a broken heart that JT and Malcolm could see coming from a mile away.

“Khalil,” Dani heaves a mighty sigh and Malcolm catches her roll her eyes. “Stupid son a-” she mumbles impalpabley under her breath and passes Malcolm a tea. She’s still mumbling when she passes JT his coffee. “It’s over,” she informs them with a calm façade but still water runs deep. Crossing her legs and smiling at them with a rather cat who got the mouse smirk she informs them about this month’s break-up. “You were right.”

They are always right. Dani’s not good at picking worthwhile men. Her prowl will resume after this week and they will start the process from the beginning, again. As far as Malcolm is concerned, he just hopes they don’t go to any more bars to meet them. The last three potential candidates have been borderline alcoholics, not that he told her that. They were also competitive assholes, one of them made fun of Malcolm’s shaky hands. JT nearly fought that one and when Dani broke up with him a week later JT told her about what he said. She cried. 

Dani’s questionable taste in men is a downfall but JT has a caffeine addiction. For the past three months, Edrisa has kept a calendar hung up outside Gil’s office door. Every time one of them sees JT fill up his mug or bring in a cup they tally it. At the beginning of December, they decided to add a little competition to the tallies. Now, each of them has a pen designated to them and not only do they keep track of how many coffees JT has but who spots him with the most. That’s not to mention how impossibly complex his Starbucks order is. 

Then there are the pranks. It took Malcolm a week of merciless pranks to realize they weren’t ill-intended. He had no older siblings and the sibling related theories in psychology aren’t exactly… evolved. Gil almost stepped in, not to stop JT, because Gil knows how important the man’s pranks are to him, but to explain to Malcolm what was happening. By the time Gil decided to pull Malcolm aside, it was too late. He watched Malcolm make the greatest mistake one person could in the precinct: prank JT back. Except, JT didn’t kill him.

Because he had secured himself a place in their family. 

“Didn’t you say that last time you two split?” JT challenges bravely, earning him a sharp frown. Malcolm realizes he’s drifted from the conversation, lost in his head. That’s happening a lot lately. He feels he is disconnecting from reality. His body doesn’t feel like his own. As if he’s slid on someone else’s clothes. They’re clothes, he can feel the cotton on his biceps and the jeans on his thighs but… they’re not his clothes.

“You good, Bright?” 

He struggles to center his attention, to focus on Dani. She’s smiling at him now, oblivious to the black mass of his psyche. He offers her a nod and a smile of his own. Better to lie, he figures. What if she doesn’t understand?

Malcolm’s attention snaps as a beat cop knocks over some files. Amongst the crowd of helpful cops, Martin stands, like a corpse amidst a field of roses, in the walkway. Dark curls, the wrong shade of youth for the season or the decade. His red cardigan pulled over a simple button-down, the same crimson of the blood dripping from his fingertips. Yet, his body is at ease, leisurely standing amidst the cops. As if it were normal for Martin Whitley to be there waving at Malcolm in the middle of the precinct. He says something to the beat cop and the man nods his head, motioning for Martin to carry on. 

"Alex is always knocking shit over." JT mumbles, momentarily drifting Malcolm's attention from Martin. When he looks back, the hall is clear. All the papers having been cleared, the station is back in busy motion. 

“Malcolm?” Dani’s eyebrows are knit together with concern. Malcolm wonders how he got here this morning. He can’t remember getting out of bed. “Malcolm, are you okay?” Did he take the subway? No, that wouldn’t make sense. He must be dreaming, that’s why his skin feels like spiders are creeping up to them. 

“I-I,” his pens and needles arms won’t move. Martin appears right in front of him. His mouth twists out the words 'are you okay, son', and he reaches out and offering a hand. “I gotta go.” He leaves without his coat, his chair tipped over on the ground. The below zero air blowing through the city hits his skin warm and he smiles at the clouds as if beams of sunshine were warming his bare skin. His feet take him nowhere, his eyes missing the sign he stops out in front of. Emergency Room in giant red letters beams through the chilled air's smog. He throws up the water he had for dinner on the frozen cement.

“Eh, fuck.” He stumbles until the hard stone of the hospital digs into his shoulder. He follows the light, spitting clear vomit off his lips. His knees give out from beneath him more than once, sending him sprawled out on a knee and his bare hands. 

At twenty he admitted himself into a psychiatric ward for the first time. It was his third time in but the first time he had to answer the sea of questions. Was he having suicidal ideations? Depriving himself of food, bingeing, or purging? 

“When was the last time you ate?” 

He can feel himself rocking and his headache slowly growing in intensity. He can’t do anything to ease his headache except answer the charge nurse but he’s afraid to answer her question truthfully. Deciding to succumb to his fate he opts for the truth,” I-I managed a-a cup of water this morning but I haven’t eaten in…” He can feel the charge nurse’s eyes slide slowly up to his. Her attention is becoming a little more focused. “I-I don’t know.” 

The charge nurse stands, a sweet smile now on her lips instead of the frown she’d worn upon entry. “That’s okay sweetheart,” she finishes her sentence on his medical chart and slides into the holder at the end of the bed. “How about we get some fluids in you, hmm? Then we can talk about getting you situated.” She smiles at him the entire time, somehow managing a calm exterior when he knows she is flustered with the mess he’s presented her with. 

His stomach twists painfully when he sees the needle in the nurse's hand. His veins are awful, he's spent too many nights of his life hooked up intravenously to machines. So many, he knows the battle that's about to occur. He relents the battle, feeling childish for the fear and discomfort playing his ribs like a xylophone. The first try makes his throat feel like it’s swollen shut, he curls his fist into the sheets and prepares for the next. They keep coming, his nurse mumbling under her breath. 

The needle finally goes in and he lets out a shaky breath. The poor nurse offers him a sad smile and a warm hand on his shoulder. “Want me to get you a blanket, sugar?” His answer is no, but by the time she’s hooked him up to the bags over his head, he faintly feels the even warm weight of a blanket as if slides up his chest. He’s too exhausted to warn them. Too exhausted to do anything more than curl on to his side and enjoy the warmth.

His sleep is dreamless. Nothing but the pitch black of his cracked psyche. He’s not sure if he’s happy with that yet, worried that his father may make another appearance. Sooner rather than later.

“You need help darling?” The nurse comes back only an hour later, pulling him from his sleep.

He shakes his head and leans a little heavier on the IV pole still trying to replenish his malnourished body. His knees tremble beneath his weight and the wheelchair only a step away seems tantalizingly out of reach. “I-” he’s trying to hold back the tears of frustration. To keep the storm raging in his body at bay but a single hot tear runs down his cheek regardless. 

The nurse says nothing as she slips an arm around his waist. They take the step and Malcolm slumps into the wheelchair, the weight of his body slumped forward. She must have put some sedatives in the port… She had told him everything she was doing, in-depth but he can’t remember her words. Nothing but the warmth of the bed that he’s now leaving behind. 

“Unfortunately,” the nurse informs him over the sound of the wheelchair crinkling across the floor. “We’re a little packed in the adult ward.” She’s nice enough, Malcolm decides. Warmer than the walls of the hospital. That’s something he can remember hating when he was teen, the temperature. That and the lack of life, which is morose considering hospital should be full of it. They’re always so cold and empty to him. “The good news is, your roommate is a real doll.”

He decides southern charm is an acquired taste but he still quite likes his nurse. 

“Poor thing,” she says,” just turned eighteen and they moved him up to the adult ward.” He can remember his first stay in the adult ward. After spending two visits in the children’s ward as a fourteen and sixteen-year-old he thought the adult ward couldn’t be much different. “He’s… Adjusting.” 

Which sounds about right. Admittedly, he's worried about sharing a room with a kid. Sure, he's an adult now but the difference between freshly minted eighteen and mid-thirties is significant. What if he hurts the kid? He starts swinging, mid hallucination and punches him. He'd… He'd never forgive himself. 

"James?” 

They’re greeted at a set of large double doors by the largest man Malcolm has ever seen. He’s wearing minty blue scrubs and has a neatly trimmed black beard. His biceps are easily the size of Malcolm’s head but he’s wearing a terrifyingly, gentle smile. “Cindy,” he greets the nurse, allowing himself into the hug of the smaller woman’s hug. “How have you been?”

Cindy pats his shoulder,” don’t you worry about silly old me.” Her touch lingers and Malcolm suspects an old but strong bond between them. It’s rather cute. “I’ve brought you a friend,” she motions to Malcolm and James offers him a short wave. “This is Malcolm and I’m gonna need you to check him in and get him off this silly little port. I’ll send one of the girls from downstairs to pick it up in an hour.”

James looks Malcolm up and down before shifting his eyes to the IV pole. He nods his head and smiles back at Cindy, " I think we can make that happen." He offers a nod and a smile before he steps behind the wheelchair.

"You'd better bring me that pole!" Cindy wishes them a hasty farewell and implied good luck to Malcolm. Leaving the two of them in the hall.

James clears his throat, " we've got some ground rules up here-"

Malcolm wraps a protective arm around his chest, " this isn't my first rodeo. I know the rules: nothing sharp, no strings, no paraphernalia, first 24 in I'm not leaving the unit, don't hurt myself or others, and… I only get my phone during free hours?" Twisting painfully in the chair, he looks back at James. "Did I forget anything?"

James hums thoughtfully, rolling over the rules in his own head. "Nah, I think you got it, man." James pushes him to the door within reach of the scanner. It allows James to slide his card across the scanner. "So, what do you do? Career-wise?"

Malcolm flinches a full bodily reaction. "I…" He shakes his head, " would you believe me if I said it's not wise to talk about my career while I'm in here?"

James whistles softly, a short chuckle following it. "Man, half the people in here have that exact problem." He pushes them through the living area, a very bland style of living room. Malcolm knows well enough that the crappy looking sofa is probably bolted or welded to the floor. Not that anyone is sitting on or near it. There are only two people in the in space anyhow. One looking through the bars of the single window and the other in a corner coloring. 

James waves at the two orderlies in the office at the mouth of the hallway. They wave back and resume their conversations. James takes him past three doors before stopping,” well, man, this is you.” It’s exactly like all the hospitals, bland and cold. “Just hold tight for me and I’ll get you situated.” Unlike Cindy, James straight out offers him a hand up. Weaker than he’d care to admit, Malcolm nearly falls in on himself. James catches him with practiced ease and helps him to the edge of the bed.

“Alright,” James pushes the wheelchair away and smiles at him. “Let me see that arm,” it’s much easier to remove the needle and Malcolm doesn’t feel a thing. James smiles at him and stands,” alright. Tammy is gonna come in a second and get you situated a little better. Is there anything I can get you tell she comes in?”

Malcolm shakes his head and lays down on the cot. It feels like a dorm bed. Stiff and plastic but he’s so exhausted he could care less. He blinks heavily and there’s a nurse over his shoulder. She’s asking him about something but he’s so exhausted he just nods. Another blink and there’s a kid standing over him.

“Hiyah!” The kid says, he sticks his hand out,” I’m Tom, you gotta be that new guy Sam was talking about.” The kid has a good handshake and when he drops Malcolm’s hand he just grins lazily. 

Malcolm’s confused. He shakes the kid's hand, giving him his name, and Tom nods his head before turning to his own bed. He pulls a book out and plops down on the bed. He opens and flicks through it until he lands on a seemingly random page. 

Tom is taller than Malcolm, an inch shy of 6’0. He’s built fairly rectangularly, with a scrappy beard, and a full head of chestnut brown hair. He’s a terribly confusing mess of grown-up and childish. He looks up from his book, “ hey, Malcolm, got a question.” He crosses his longs legs beneath him,” what’d you do before you came here?”

Malcolm swallows thickly,” a cop, technically.”

Tom grins,” really? NYPD? You don’t seem the type.” He leans over his legs, peering at Malcolm,” hey, and what does technically mean?”

Malcolm shakes his head,” I was a consultant.”

“That’s like the coolest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Tom spends the day on his bed. He alternated between reading and talking. Mostly asking questions. “Did you ever meet Manson or was he before your time?”, “How many dead bodies did you see?”, “Have you ever shot anybody?” Until lights are called and then they sit in silence for an hour before Tom asks,” who’s your favorite serial killer?”

“Go to bed, Tom.” The kid can’t see it but Malcolm’s grinning ear to ear.

“Yess, sir!”

He wakes up at six in the morning. It’s do-able but a challenge with the number of drugs he swallowed the night before. It gives him a commonality with Tom. The kid is a great roommate and he makes six o’clock in the morning, one of the best parts of the day. 

“Malcolm,” Tom turns to him,” explain to me how it’s healthy to wake up at this ///unGodly hour? I’m eighteen not fucking eighty.” How Tom manages to make a rule enforced in every hospital Malcolm has ever been in feels like a personal attack speaks to his youth. It’s something that Malcolm can sympathize with and it makes his day better.

No matter if Malcolm has a lengthy answer or simply a shrug, Tom always rolls his eyes and acts as if the world itself is out to get him. That in itself might be a better-equipped statement for the outside world. Especially considering Bethany, the twenty-four-year-old a few rooms down with severe delusions and paranoia. 

“Hey man,” Tom breaks him from his thoughts and Malcolm realizes he’s been staring at his breakfast for far too long. He hasn’t even touched it and Tom has cleared his plate. “You better eat that before they think you’re starving yourself.” Tom empties his coffee mug,” the pancakes really aren’t that bad.”

Malcolm smiles at Tom because he can sense the kid is put off by Malcolm’s behavior. He’s also reached out and tried to make the food seem better than it really is. So he brings a bite to his lips and as he swallows it he knows it’s going to suck so much coming up. “It’s not that bad,” he lies, despite needing a mouthful of water to dislodge it from his throat. 

Tom smiles back and resumes talking to the blonde girl sitting across from them.

Eight-thirty comes way too soon and Malcolm has good reason to believe his medications are messing with his head more than they need to be. He drifts off in the middle of the community group. Pulling his attention back to the present, Tom is being lightly reprimanded for biting his nails. The girl, he can’t think of her name… something with an M. She’s crying about something but her words don’t make any sense to Malcolm. As if she’s babbling nonsense. Two patients, ones he hasn’t seen yet, are talking to each other in hushed whispers and Malcolm can only assume that’s not a good thing.

At nine, Bethany screams and Malcolm’s blood feels like ice in his veins. He watches in horror as she tries to make a run for it. She gets a few steps and falls to the floor. She begins slamming her head against the tile, screaming in agony, and wreathing her tiny limbs around as if she were a marionette. 

Malcolm throws up what little of his breakfast he managed to get down. He knows the nurse that helps him off the bathroom floor suspects he’s forced himself to vomit but he doesn’t bother correcting her. She helps him to the room and he succumbs to sleep. Later, Tom informs him Bethany isn’t usually like that. That codes don’t ever get called around here. She was just having a bad day and Malcolm can sympathize with that.

At nine-forty-five, the nurse from early comes into the room and asks if he is feeling well. The answer is no but he sits up and tells her yes. He’s lead to the doctor, a man about the same age as him. Stephen, he learns, went to Harvard a year ahead of him and while Malcolm’s graduate school years were spent preparing for the FBI Stephen became a doctor. 

As they run through the standard questions about his feelings, ideations, and sleeping Malcolm comes to like the man. He’s kind and understanding. Even when he asks about the incident earlier, about his suspected purging. 

Malcolm explains everything. His father elicited the reaction he always does but more surprising Stephen immediately jumps to connecting dots instead of making assumptions. They come to several agreements about Malcolm’s medications and appetite. In the end, Stephen lowers several medications dosages and puts in an order for Malcolm to be given lighter dishes. Malcolm, according to their agreement, has to eat at every meal. He doesn’t have to clear the dish but it would be best if he did. He leaves his office feeling better. Hopeful for tomorrow. 

When Malcolm gets back to the living area, Tom is waiting on the couch. He’s got a spread of books, says his mother brought them for him last week. Tom explains several of them and allows Malcolm to take his pick, explaining that the one Malcolm has picked was by far the best. Tom’s read it cover to cover a dozen times. 

Malcolm enjoys the book.

At eleven-thirty, at something called processing group, Malcolm draws a garden on the sheet of paper he’s supposed to be making goals on. Tom leans over and asks if one of Malcolm’s goals is to piss of an orderly or be a gardener. Malcolm shrugs and tells Tom he was going for artist. Tom’s barking laughter gets them both stink eyes but doesn’t settle their high spirits. Malcolm adds ‘tell more jokes’ to his blank list and grins when Tom sees it. 

Twelve thirty is lunch. There are hamburgers and Tom’s so excited. He tells Malcolm all about it, nearly trembling with energy. He stays behind with Malcolm at a more sluggish pace, nearly latched to his hip. Tom looks defeated when Malcolm eats soup instead. Malcolm laughs when Tom offers him a pickle and he tells the kid it’s better this way. Tom happily in love with his hamburger and Malcolm struggling with mostly broth and scarce noodles. 

One o’clock rolls around, Malcolm learns is Tom’s favorite part of the day.

“It’s pretty much recess,” Tom informs him, looking at Malcolm as if he’s bewildered that he, a grown man, doesn't want to go outside and play. “Oh come on,” he sits down on the corner of his bed. “You gotta come. I’ll feel bad if I leave you here all alone.” Malcolm would prefer sitting and reading but he can’t say no when Tom looks at him like that. All full of youth and innocent, the little bastard. “Yes! You’re gonna come aren’t you!”

Tom leads the way, informing Malcolm of the ins and outs of how to play ‘Crazy Ball’. Which, Malcolm learns, they’re not allowed to call it so they call it Cartoon Ball. Tom also informs him Looney Ball was another option but the nurses didn’t like that one either. So Cartoon Ball as a demotion from Looney because of Looney Tunes. Tom steers Malcolm the entire way talking his ear off. He ducks behind Malcolm with a mischievous giggle when a nurse fusses gently about the no-touching rule. Malcolm can’t help but match Tom’s energy, allowing himself to be guided outside. 

The sun is… His legs stop working when the rays of the sun start beaming down on him. He soaks up the warmth, a part of him wanting to move somewhere cooler but unable to tear himself away. 

"Mal-" Tom stops, slightly confused at Malcolm's behavior. Glancing at the nurses, attempting to gauge what's happening. "Feels good, doesn't it?" He decides to approach it the only way he can think of. "The sun? Being outside?"

Malcolm manages to open his eyes, offering a small nod, and he follows Tom over to the small court to play Cartoon ball. He is awful but when he manages to score, at least that’s what he thinks he’s done, Tom leads them all in a round of cheering. It makes Malcolm feel a different type of warm. 

At two a movie is played half-way through, Malcolm’s never heard of it and he spends a majority of the movie waiting for the red winter coat on the couch to turn into his father. He smiles and nods as Tom explains the main parts of the movie to him as they get ready for the Education group. It seems he’s really missed out on a good movie.

At the education group, he endures a thirty-minute lecture on how important it is to have a schedule. It makes him feel like he's back to his freshman year in college, that leads to dark thoughts. He gets stuck in them, his mind cycling them over and over. His hand trembles in his lap, his tight fist doing nothing to stop it. He spends an hour in the loop of thoughts, finally breaking free when Tom sits down beside him, offering him a book.

He reads through visitation. Trying not to think about how much it hurts that he hasn’t a single visitor. That is his fault, he chose not to tell anyone. 

At dinner, Tom tells him all about his mom. She’s single and Malcolm learns she, too, is in her early thirties. He can only assume why Tom would tell him something like that but Malcolm brushes it off and tells Tom to eat his pasta. He hides his full bowl of soup from Tom, giving the kid a wink instead while he puts his full tray away. 

He knows, just the way that Tom’s looking at him, this isn’t going to work. Locking himself away won’t fix him, nothing will. 

The beauty of checking himself into the hospital is, he can check himself right back out.

\------------------

Accepting her job as Malcolm wrangler, Dani heads to his apartment. She’d just hung the phone up on Gil, the two of them arguing about whether or not they needed to worry about Malcolm. After storming out of the precinct two days ago he hadn’t said anything to anyone. Leaving Dani to have to run recon and Gil to worry his ass off in his office.

Dani gets out of her car and stretches. A breeze blows by and she wraps her coat around herself a little tighter. Luckily he hasn’t moved his spare key and she gets into his apartment without a hitch. She finds him on the floor of his kitchen, staring into nothing.

She looks at him, long and hard. Past steely blue eyes and scarce stubble on gaunt cheeks. She sees a man haunted by someone else's actions. An empath who lives every day as his father's last victim. Condemned by himself to live in penance for actions he didn't comment. “You-” her throat constricts when those eyes glance up at her. “You look like… shit.”

He barks out a laugh she wasn’t expecting. His entire face ate up with actual happiness instead of the party the mask often looking back at her. “I’m… having a moment,” he chooses the words carefully, each killing that silly smile a little more. “Well, a series of moments.”

She looks at the mess around him, the upturned pot and water. Her eyes glance to the stove and she frowns,” are you okay?” The stove is still burning bright red which she equates to mean that the water and pot on the floor were at one point hot. 

He sighs, leaning his head against the cool metal of the stove. After a moment, he shakes his head. He cast his eyes away from here to the mess all around them. “I-I wanted to take a shower but…” there are tears in his eyes when he glances at her. “So, I tried to make something to eat.” His voice trembles,” but my hands wouldn’t stop shaking an-and I knocked the stupid fuck-” He buries his head in his hands, running them roughly through his hair. Pulling more than smoothing the strayed locks. 

Dani crosses the water, kneeling her knees right in it for the sake of proximity. “It’s just water,” she puts a hand on his drawn-up knees. “Besides,” Dani waves it off,” I can make you some soup? I make a mean canned Campbell’s chicken noodles?”

Malcolm looks at her. Attempting the gauge if she’s secretly frustrated with him. All he finds is worry and… and hope. Worry that he won’t eat but hope that he might just try for her. He loathes how correct her hope is going to be. “Okay.” He’s not okay, not yet and that’s okay too.

“Good because I suck at baking,” she offers him a hand up. Motioning to the stove she informs him,” I’ll do my best not to ruin the soup and you can watch just to make sure.”

He smiles at his acceptance of his job.

“Where were you?” Dani asks as she opens a can. It had been her idea he get soup in a can instead of making them from scratch every week. Mostly, it was a numerical way she could keep track of how much he was eating. “You freaked Gil out pretty good.”

He’s haggard. It only piqued her curiosity more.   
“I…” he looks down at the floor and she gets the distinct impression he’s considering lying to her. “I checked myself into a psychiatric hospital.”

She doesn’t react to that, she just keeps stirring the soup. She thinks out her answer before commenting. “Did it help with whatever was bothering you?”

“No,” is his immediate response. “I didn’t give it the time though so that’s my fault.”

A day and a half, she guesses. So, he’s probably right about not giving it enough time. That’s not for her to decide though or to judge him on. “Do you want to tell me what it was that was bothering you?” She touches the soup with the tip of her finger, frowning when it’s still too cool. “Do you want to talk about what you plan to do next?”

She hears Malcolm sigh. He takes a moment,” I’m having more hallucinations and I have no idea what to do now.” He reaches around her, to the stove, and turns the burner from 3 to 8. She frowns, that’s probably why the soup wasn’t warm yet. “I guess I’m giving up.”

Little does he know… “Could I-” she stops and tries again. “I have ideas. Done my own research.” She glances back at him, turning back to the stove when she sees she’s got his attention. “Perhaps, we can try together instead of you doing it all by yourself?”

Malcolm frowns down at his hands. He had considered saying something but admitting to hallucinations, delusions, and his complete lack of self-care is an easy way to ruin his grasp on reality. Gil would have to stop his consulting. Dani would lose any peace of mind she might have around him. JT might not understand. So he shakes his head, it’s better for the majority if he keeps his lips sealed. So that’s what he’ll do.

“Okay,” Dani relents. She smiles as she cuts the stove off, cupping a spoonful of soup into a bowl. “But,’” she exaggerates,” I want you to eat as much of this as possible and then I want you to reconsider.” She slides the bowl to him,” please, Malcolm.” She doesn’t let go until he drags his eyes up to hers. “I don’t care what it is. I don’t care if you think it will hurt my feelings or upset me. I care about you.” She taps the bowl,” now eat up before it gets cold.”

He nods his head in understanding. 

“I mean it,” she says softly, making her own bowl. “You worry me.”

“Not my intention,” he replies, nausea twisting in his stomach as he spoons the broth slowly. He clears his throat, biting his tongue as his empty stomach attempts to rebel. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, pushing the bowl away. He puts his hands on his head, leaning on the counter. He sighs. He needs to eat. 

A cold hand on his shoulder jolts him from his thoughts. She hugs him. Wrapping both her arms around his back, she collects him in her arms. Slowly, he moves into the touch. He allows himself to relax in her arms, turning so they’re chest to chest. Her shirt muffles his soft sob and her hand goes to his hair, gently stroking through the thick hair atop his head. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for,” she whispers. “Absolutely nothing.”

He cries into her shoulder, holding her tight. Perhaps it's the scent of her, a mix of berries and flowers he can’t identify but knows to be uniquely her. Maybe it’s the cold hand on his neck. He trusts her and the knot in his chest eases. He relaxes. 

“I’m right here,” she whispers. “I won’t leave you.”

He believes her.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm having a crisis about the fact that I am emotionally repressed... as you can guess, I don't wanna talk about it


End file.
